


That is a Saddle, or I am a Dwarf

by Steampunk_Hobbit



Series: We Are Different From Them [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings Online
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Blackroot Vale, Dol Amroth, Gen, Gondor, Hill of Erech, Rovalang is tired of this arrangement, Slice of Life, Stone of Erech, Swan Knight, Vol. IV Book 1 The Shadow in Morthond, Western Gondor, he wants his old life back, not the biggest fan of fate rn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-22 14:18:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21078194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steampunk_Hobbit/pseuds/Steampunk_Hobbit
Summary: Rovalang hates his fate. He really does.Or: the fate of a NPC is to repeat the same instance over and over until the remaking of the world.





	That is a Saddle, or I am a Dwarf

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to me and my brother's dog, Annabelle, who had lymphoma and a rotting disease and had to be put down the day before yesterday at 2am in morning.
> 
> Apparently I impulse write when I'm upset? I wrote the first instalment of this series when Mom was in the hospital. I'm so weird.
> 
> So, like "Transparent", Rovalang is fully aware that there's something different about the Players. His circumstance is just different from the Rangers'.

Dominated by that massive sphere, carved out of solid black granite an age before, the Hill of Erech was normally silent. Birds sang from the boughs of trees despite how close they were to the accursed Paths of the Dead.

Something was missing. He didn't have to think very hard to remember what it was. In Dol Amroth, the pounding of the sea on the shore was a constant. Some swore on their mother's graves that it helped them sleep at night and oftentimes he found himself agreeing with them—after all, Dol Amroth was known for its artisans, and inspiration came with a good night's sleep, as his father used to say.

Rovalang missed the sea.

The churning waves would call to him sometimes, and he found himself becoming more and more willing to sell his gold tooth if it meant he could go back to the city and resume his duties in guarding the Princess.

An icy breath suddenly seemed to settle down on the hill and pool on the floor of the valley, drawing his gaze upwards. _Here we go again_, he thought as the familiar black shape flew out from above the mountains and descended down towards the Gate of the Dead. A Player character would be appearing soon, sent by the Princess to recall him back to Dol Amroth, and he would tell them of the great beast and its master and the danger posed if the Nazgûl managed to convince the leader of the remaining oathbreakers to fight for Sauron.

Again, he was going to shake in his boots at the sight of the hulking figure draped in a black fabric. Again, he was going to have to stare into the faceless depths of that deep cowl while they tried to beat it off.

When they succeeded, he would have to wait for the next Player—unless there was a big enough gap that he wouldn't be immediately recalled to the Blackroot Vale after he travelled back to the city. It would be nice to finally relax or return to the normality of his patrols of the city and beaches.

He itched to take on some of the Corsairs that were blockading the harbour.

All further thoughts, though, were interrupted by the sound of hurrying feet. Rovalang heaved a long sigh, before turning and planting his feet.

A tall, well-built Man came jogging up the hill, one he had seen before on previous Quests. Shaggy, dark bangs threatened to hang in the Man's eyes and blind him, giving him a rough and unkempt appearence beneath his deep hood. A massive bow was strapped to his back next to a very full quiver, which reminded Rovalang that this was a very capable Hunter—despite his unwaveringly blank expression and his tendancy to not speak very much.

Player characters were like that. They tended to be very... _distant_.

The man came to a stop before him and gave him a nod in greeting. Rovalang didn't hesitate and launched into the long, but now-well-remembered, spiel about the fell beast and Nazgûl that had descended towards the entrance to the Paths of the Dead.

"You have heard of this winged creature, Sulfaron... I can see it in your eye. Will you help me find it and keep it from harming the people of the Vale?"

Slowly, the Man nodded.

"Let us go at once!" Rovalang exclaimed, forcing the worry into his voice despite how he wanted nothing more to talk flatly and quickly. "If you have a fellowship with you, bring them along as well—" even as he was saying it, Sulfaron was shaking his head, letting him know that he was alone. "There will be danger enough for all... but let us chase this foe! I saw it fly in the direction of the haunted cave to the north-west. Perhaps we can bring it down, if we hurry!"

With that, he turned and began to jog towards his horse, Gwaeltâl. Sulfaron followed after him closely, and thankfully the Man's horse had wandered close to his. They mounted, and raced off northwards.

It felt like it took an eternity to ride up the path from the Vale, though in truth he knew it was only an hour as the foothills of the White Mountains came down sharply to the edge of the Vale. He had done this ride so many times he knew every one of Gwaeltâl's hoofbeats, and the creak of leather was familiar and comforting to him.

Several hundred yards and around the bend from the Gate, Rovalang called for a halt in the quietest tone he knew could be heard. He swung down from the saddle and lead Gwaeltâl over to a low-hanging tree branch, where he carefully wrapped the ends of the reins so his steed would not take off while he was gone. Gwaeltâl was loyal enough, but oftentimes he let his stomach lead him far afield.

Sulfaron followed his example, and a minute later the young man's horse was tied up next to Gwaeltâl.

Rovalang turned to look at Sulfaron once he had rejoined him. "A cold sensation has gripped my heart, Sulfaron," he told him. "Do you feel it too? I believe we draw near to the creature I beheld above the mountains!"

He watched as Sulfaron looked up the path behind him, the hunter's eyes narrowing and brow furrowing at the sight of mist hovering just above the ground, like an omen. Eventually, Rovalang was rewarded by a serious nod.

"Are you sure you still do not wish to call on any allies?" Rovalang asked again.

"I will suceed by myself," Sulfaron assured, his voice a neutral tenor that reminded him just how otherworldly Player Characters could be.

"Very well, " Rovalang sighed. "Let us waste no more daylight!"

He took the lead, and jogged up the hill. As they went, they encountered a bear that didn't hesitate to charge them with a frightening roar. He ran at the beast, his halberd gripped tightly in both hands, as Sulfaron unholstered his bow and knocked an arrow on the string.

As Rovalang hacked and slashed, arrow after arrow sank deep into the beast's hide. It wasn't long before it succumbed with a groan, collapsing to the ground.

They were on the move again before the animal even ceased to move. They had covered the rest of the way in the matter of half a minute, where he had to slide to stop and pretend to slide to a stop and gape in horror.

“By the King of Gondor!” he exclaimed. He stood there blinking for good measure, before continuing on. “What a terrible creature!” For it was terrible, with its long neck, strong back haunches, and wyvern-stature. It was a slimy grey, and evil radiated from it. It was truly a _fell_ creature. “But worse: do you see what it bears upon its back?"

He pointed to the leather strapped between its wings. "That is a saddle, or I am a dwarf!”

Sulfaron glanced at him, before focusing back on the Fell Beast. Rovalang could see what was churning in his head—somehow—as several of the Player Characters he had guided through this encounter had charged at it without a second thought, and he had to rein them in before they could get the both of them killed. Half the time they died anyway. Death wasn't fun, it hurt.

Sulfaron leapt forward, but, thankfully, Rovalang's voice stopped him in his tracks. “We must slip around it and find this beast's master!” he yelped. He didn't usually yell that line, but he did so then or the beast would try and eat them.

Sulfaron let out a frustrated sigh, which was the most emotion he had seen from him so far.

“Careful, now...” Rovalang cautioned.

Slowly, quietly, the Swan Knight began to inch forward while the beast turned to check behind itself. Sweat began to pour from his forehead and catch in his beard, making it itch. To his relief, he heard Sulfaron's quiet steps follow after him.

“A little further...” he whispered. His back ached with how stiffly he held himself so his armour wouldn't clank.

When bushes finally blocked them from the beast's view, Rovalang let himself heave a sigh of relief. _Would it be ironic to say that I'm getting too old for this?_ he mused. Sometimes his back begged to agree, though it seemed he hadn't aged a day since this all began.

Turning to Sulfaron, he said, his voice still hushed, “We made it! Now we must hurry!” He could see the cloaked figure looming in the distance, close to the door to the Path of the Dead.

At this point, the Swan Knight stopped caring about whether or not his armour clanked when he moved and began to run, eager to get this enounter over with, because if he was to stay too long amongst evil he was sure his heart would explode.

“Halt, creature!” he called once they were close enough. “This is no place for you!”

The Nazgûl whipped around to face him, pinning him with his invisible stare. He could almost feel the Black Breath attempts to creep up on him. “All places belong to my Master,” the wraith hissed. “_You_ are the ones who tresspass.”

There was a beat of silence as the being was sizing him up—despite the fact he had a good foot on him in height.

“I am the Bane of Rhûn; I go where I will,” the fallen king continued. “Who are you to deny me?”

The knight's words were bubbling up in his throat almost before the enemy finished speaking. “I am Rovalang, a Swan Knight of Dol Amroth,” he proclaimed before gesturing to the Player beside him. “And this is Sulfaron, a Hunter of great fame and tremendous skill!”

The wraith stilled at the sound of the Hunter's name, and seemed to bristle with anger. “Sulfaron?” the Bane of Rhûn hissed. “You are known to us! You will not leave this place alive!”

The Nazgûl charged at Sulfaron with a fury that was unmatched among the living. A glimmer of surprise shone in the Player Character's eyes as doom approached, but thankfully he was able to rip his bow from its holster and fire off a few shots before he had to cast the bow aside andresort to using his twin blades.

The fight was intense. Rovalang took advantage of the Ringwraith's back being turned to him and struck some grevious blows while he was preoccupied. They moved as if the Maia of speed and grace was smiling down on them, and they quickly had the upper hand.

Sulfaron struck the “killing” blow only moments later. The black robes collapsed into a pile at their feet with a hissing, snarling growl that promised that the wraith would be back. In the distance, the Fell Beast let out a horrible shriek and took to the sky, sensing that its master was defeated, for now.

Rovalang let himself heave another sigh of relief.

Sulfaron said nothing, though he seemed a few shades paler than before. He quietly went over to where he had thrown his bow and examined it carefully before reholstering it.

“I have never before been in the presence of such evil, Sulfaron!” Now a lie, to be sure, but he had to say the same thing every time. “Let us leave this place, and then we will speak of it... but not before!”

The ride back to the Hill of Erech was a solemn one. It allowed Rovalang to digest what he had seen. Gwaeltâl had long since stopped being antsy in the hours after the fight because he, too, remembered as Rovalang remembered. It was a blessing, but it always served to remind him of how he was stuck there, always waiting for the next Player Character.

Was this his fate, or would his dreams finally come true and someone could take his place as the scout of the Blackroot Vale?

* * *

After speaking with Sulfaron upon the slope of Erech, a strange, but not unfamiliar, sensation came over him.

The Vale blurred before his very eyes, and the feeling of being snatched away came over him. When the feeling disappated, he stumbled as if he had been thrown.

Even before his vision cleared, the familiar sounds of seagulls crying, waves crashing, and people talking his him like a slap. The salt in the air was so strong that his heart sprouted wings and soared. Tears came to his eyes.

His vision cleared too slowly for his liking, but when he could see again he wanted to dance a little jig. He was _home_.

He didn't hesitate and quickly began to jog off towards his favourite tavern, the Swan and the Sword, for a hot meal and some ale. He had been living off of hard tack and whatever he could hunt or trap for far too long. He needed a good, hearty meal, cooked by someone else, before he was recalled.

He made it to the tavern. He made it to a table. A maid came over and told him what there was to eat that night. He was still there when she came back with what he ordered, a plate of lamb, bread slices, and greens, along with a mug of ale.

To his utter joy, he was able to finish his supper. More often than not he found himself back in the Blackroot Vale with the plate and mug still grasped firmly in his hands. Explaining why he was returning them to the Swan and Sword the next time he was able to return to Dol Amroth was often a difficult story to tell, and one often accepted with a heafty dose of skeptisim.

Draining the last of the ale, he got up and made his way over to a free chair by the fire. He place his helmet on his lap and took out his pipe, which he easily lit and took a long draw from. The chair was hard, but it was softer than the ground.

It wasn't long before he could feel his eyes begin to droop, and hazily he contemplated whether or not he needed to go and rent a room for the night. It had been so long since he had to do that. He was quite surprised he hadn't been taken back yet. For now it seemed the curse had left him alone—

Or not. As if summoned by his blasé thoughts of it, the familiar feeling began to buzz in his head. His eyes flew open wide as his surroundings began to twist and shift, then fade. The inside of the Swan and Sword blended with the view of his camp in the Vale as dread weighed down his stomach and sent a coppery taste to his mouth.

The chair disappeared from underneath him and he slammed down next to his dead campfire. His helmet landed heavily in the grass and his pipe slipped from his lips and fell into the firepit. Against all odds, the little embers in the bowl reignited the wood in the pit and he was forced to scramble to save it before it burned.

He succeeded, but not before he felt the fire lick at the side of his hand. He recoiled with a yelp, landing on his back, where he spent the next several minutes praising Eru that he was still wearing his gloved gauntlets.

And then he spent what felt like the next hour cursing fate that he was again to stand watch for _another_ Player, while Sulfaron got to continue on.

This was what his life was, and it wouldn't change until the Valar were satisfied with him and let him go.

**Author's Note:**

> So, Rovalang, since he's been there for so long, calls the "haunted cave", which is the Southern Entrance to the Paths of the Dead, the "Gate of the Dead". Wanted to show how his perception of the place had changed because of how long he's been there.
> 
> •••
> 
> Name Translations (all in Sindarin)
> 
> ▪Rovalang = "winged sword", from _roval_ "winged", and _lang_ "sword, cutlass".  
▪Gwaeltâl = "wind foot", from _gwael_ "wind", and _tâl_ "foot".  
▪Sulfaron = "wind hunter", from _sûl_ "wind", and _faron_ "hunter".


End file.
